Author's Note:

Thanks for the reviews and comments! Sherlock answers my quiz question in this chapter, if you didn't already work it out (or peek at other peoples' answers!). Thanks to those who played along!


Chapter 72 – Aware of Your Existence

"Another one solved, then?" John asked as Sherlock stood in the middle of the rug and gazed thoughtfully into space after hitting Send on his message to Rose.

"Hmm?" he asked distractedly, hearing John's words but not really registering the question.

"A case," John replied. "Solved it? You should keep a count. Beans in a jar or something. Jelly beans."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

John just shook his head and chuckled to himself. He continued perusing the newspaper from his position on the sofa. After a moment, he said, "Dimmock's been given another case." John didn't look up at his former flatmate; his eyes remained on the printed page.

Sherlock continued ignoring the doctor. He wasn't interested in which Scotland Yard D.I. was flavour of the month. He assisted them all equally, if the cases were intriguing enough. It was no longer just Giles Lestrade who felt comfortable approaching the famous Consulting Detective.

Sherlock sank down into his armchair and wondered if this was now another sign he should really make the journey north to see Rose. She had contacted him.

He didn't believe in signs. Absolute rubbish. But he knew he'd been putting off reconnecting with her since he'd been let off the hook—as stated by the unimpressed Lady Smallwood—for ridding England of yet another dragon. His enthusiasm on the tarmac and confidence in the idea that he could just hightail it to Edinburgh and reconcile with Rose at any time had waned considerably. Besides, he'd been high at the time. What had he been thinking?

Sober now for just on a month, Sherlock had buried himself in his work. He was waiting for Moriarty's legacy to reveal itself. Of course Moriarty was dead. Of that there was no question. Sherlock had taken an overdose to prove it. So why not take the time to visit Rose?

Because she'd broken up with him, that's why. Because she'd told him a lie to get him to push her away. Because she'd moved as far away from him as possible.

Why did she ask for his help, then?

Obvious.

John Watson stretched and yawned widely. He stood and announced his impending departure since Sherlock had no interesting cases this morning that would have them running around London, the blood pumping through their veins.

"Mary and Rosie should be back from the clinic," John added, before grabbing his coat.

"Yes, well," Sherlock said, not at all feeling guilty nor responsible for the lethargy of London's criminals today. Instead, he felt a familiar fluttering in his stomach. She had contacted him. He rose from his seat as well, heaving a sigh as he did so. "I might head north. Potential case up there. Should be a couple of days at most."

"Oh?"

He'd piqued John's interest, but Sherlock knew the ex-army doctor and new parent had too many responsibilities here. He'd require more notice if he was going to join Sherlock on an overnight case.

"Probably nothing," Sherlock lied. "Probably boring." He gave John a weak smile. "You know Northerners." So he was doing this then. Going to see Rose.

"Uh. Yeah," John said, deflating a little. He shrugged on his jacket and added, "Well, tell me about it when you get back."

Sherlock hummed non-commitedly, then strode toward the back of the flat while John's footsteps thundered on the stairwell. Sherlock paused in the doorway to his bedroom. No. He wouldn't pack. That would require too much fore-thought and would give him the false assumption that he'd be welcome to stay. He should just go. Drop in. No suitcase, no pre-booked tickets. Hightail it to Edinburgh. That had been his original plan.

Naturally, Rose making contact with him had been the more obvious sign that he should see her. The less obvious sign was the new Twitter follower he'd acquired a fortnight ago, who he was sure was Rose. Suspected was Rose.

Hoped.

And now a request for help from her.

He'd agonised over adding the 'x' to his initials when signing off on the message to Rose. Just an innocent little letter that was supposed to tell Rose volumes about his feelings for her.

Other signs that Rose should be in his life were John bringing her up in casual conversation, and of course, the revelation about his Goddaughter's name.

Rosamund.

Even before Molly had offered her explanation at the Christening, Sherlock's mind had already retrieved the relevant Latin translation at lightning speed, discarding the name's germanic origins.

rosa mundi - Rose of the world.

"Rosie for short," Molly had added, causing another memory trigger for Sherlock. He'd paused in his rapid typing during the Christening to retrieve several more memories from his Mind Palace. He had always called Rose Rosie whenever he was high. His inhibitions were lower then, and he spoke her name with great affection. And love.

"You know we didn't name our daughter after…" John had awkwardly said to Sherlock at the drinks and nibbles thing after the Christening.

"Clearly," Sherlock said, looking away and blinking self-consciously.

"Named after someone in Mary's family, apparently," John continued. "I'm sure she explained it to me. Not that I can recall. Perhaps I wasn't really listening."

"Like I'm doing now," Sherlock murmured.

"So… er…" John began, and then he cleared his throat. Always a signal he was entering into uncomfortable subject matter territory. Sherlock inhaled deeply. "W-what happened to Rose?" John asked. "She just sort of disappeared off the face of the earth after you returned to hospital. In sickness and in health didn't apply?"

Sherlock shot John a look. "We exchanged no such vows. She's simply not in the picture anymore. And I'd appreciate it if you never mentioned her to me again. Isn't there cake? You promised me cake."

And Sherlock had stalked off, leaving John to shuffle his feet and clear his throat once again.

Before he could visit Rose, Sherlock needed to know where she resided, if she was working and whether or not she had enrolled in any courses at one of the universities. He wasn't as familiar with Edinburgh as he was with London. He'd rather leave his city with this information already in hand, rather than trying to retrieve it while he was navigating unfamiliar streets.

He could've asked his brother. If Mycroft had done his bidding on New Year's Day, the British Government would've obtained a residential address for the delivery of a single red rose to Rosemarie Sulford. But practically admitting to his older sibling that Rose was somebody Sherlock cared for, before being sent on a suicide mission, was a different scenario to implying the same on an ordinary day like today.

So, for this exercise, Sherlock required the services of his favourite hacker. He grabbed a cab outside 221B and settled into the back seat.

"Frogger," Sherlock said into his phone, once he'd given the cabbie the address in East London. "I'm on my way over. What topping would you like on your pizza?" He recalled the time he was required to pick onion slices from the top of Frogger's pizza. Frogger only enjoyed the flavour provided by the onion, apparently. He didn't like to actually eat the slices.

"Mister 'olmes," the hacker replied. "You're not at the pizza joint now are you? Because I've moved."

This came as a surprise to Sherlock. His personal I.T. consultant always gave the impression he was a permanent fixture in his basement flat on Commercial Street.

"Moved?"

"Uh. Yeah. I had to. You'll see why when you get 'ere. I'll text you the address. And Mister 'olmes… don't worry about the pizza. I'm on a diet."

Sherlock didn't like things to change. It threw him off his game. Still, Frogger's new residence in Lambeth was in a marginally more pleasant part of the city, and the detective assumed he wouldn't feel as if he had to disinfect himself after each visit. His last trip to the basement flat was when he was investigating John Garvie, and had obtained a copy of the MP's electronic diary. Sherlock's heart grew heavy at the thought of everything that had occurred afterwards.

John Garvie had done as requested. He'd resigned from the parliamentary committee. But everything seemed to go downhill after that.

"All right, Mister 'olmes?"

"Frogger."

The hacker ushered Sherlock inside the modest Victorian terraced cottage.

"Ah… nice," Sherlock said, since Frogger was looking at him expectantly.

"New beginnings," said Frogger.

Sherlock stifled a sigh. "Really?" He raised his eyebrows in mock interest.

"Yeah, and… ah…"

Sherlock frowned. This wouldn't be good.

"So, I'm trying to adopt a more professional approach. No more pizza on the job."

"On the job?"

"Grease on the keyboard."

"Okay." Sherlock folded his hands behind his back and looked about him.

"And… ah…" Frogger went on. Good God, thought Sherlock. What now? "Mister 'olmes, if you don't mind…"

"What?"

"New beginnings, and all that… I don't go by my nickname anymore. It was one I had as a kid, you know, because of the game… Frogger."

"Yes," said Sherlock a tad impatiently.

"So, I go by my real name now." The hacker formerly known as Frogger stuck out his hand and said, "Craig."

Sherlock looked at the proffered hand. Surely not. But… needs must. He returned Frogg…er… Craig's handshake, and decided to play nicely.

"Sherlock," he replied.

Craig's face lit up.

"Really?"

"What do you mean, 'Really?'" Sherlock asked. "Surely you know by now that I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Of course I do, Mist…ah… Sherlock. It's just that I never thought I'd get to call you by your first name."

Sherlock gave Craig one of his broad, fake smiles. "New beginnings," he said. "We're on a first name basis now… Craig."

Craig pumped Sherlock's hand enthusiastically and said, "Nice to meet you, Sherlock."

Thankfully their game-playing was short-lived, with Sherlock internally congratulating himself for being slightly less of the arsehole he used to be. Craig gestured toward an open door, beyond which Sherlock could see the darkened den full of the equipment he usually associated with his geeky service provider. The familiar sight was a welcome relief after all of Craig's 'new beginnings' nonsense.

"Today I'm after—" Sherlock began, before he was distracted by movement toward his left. "You have a dog," he said, as an enormous brown beast slinked out from behind a sofa. And not just any dog.

"Sherlock 'olmes, meet Toby," Craig announced proudly. "Toby, this is Sherlock." Sherlock furrowed his brow, thinking Craig's second introduction was highly unnecessary. "He's—"

"A bloodhound," finished Sherlock, speaking with faint reverence in his voice.

"Just you wait til you see what he can do," Craig said.

But Sherlock's mind was already buzzing with a multitude of ideas.

"Show me."


Rose quickly fumbled for her umbrella while poised on the top step of the bus.

Please work this time, you fucking useless fucker.

After the bus pulled up at the kerb, she alighted and quickly pushed open the umbrella. Thankfully, it functioned perfectly. Rose trudged the fifty metres toward her cousin's front gate, her head bowed and silently hoping just this once she wouldn't receive the usual comments from neighbours.

"Cold enough for you, love?"

Ah, there it was.

Rose smiled resignedly at Mrs G from number twenty-three. Mr G passed her by, with his usual greeting, "Evenin,' Miss Rosemarie" on his way to the corner shop for a packet of cigarettes for Mrs G—who routinely gave up smoking every Monday.

London may be busier, she may pass more people on her way home, but Edinburgh—or at least Craigleith Hill—forced Rose to interact with more people than she liked to at the end of a mentally exhausting day.

There goes Rosemarie, they'd say, clucking their tongues. She's a smart one. Reading books all day, then coming home and reading more books. What kind of life is that for a young lass?

A car passed her, coming from the other direction. Before it reached her, the driver dipped their headlights. Rose gave them a quick wave. She didn't recognise the car, nor the driver in the dark and the pouring rain, but she knew she ought to. It was somebody who knew her anyway. On a clear evening, they'd wind down their windae and call out, "Headin' home, Rosemarie?"

Yes, indeed, she was.

Ten metres to go. The rain brought with it a biting cold that rattled Rose's bones.

She plunged her gloved hand into her bag and rummaged around for her keys. Five metres.

A motorcycle slowed up beside her, stopping at the kerb in front of the house just past her cousins'. It was a good thing Rose could turn into their garden now. She wouldn't have to make small talk with this tall stranger in black motorcycle leathers about the weather while they were standing in it. But it looked like the Fergusons were going to get an evening visitor.

The other day, Rose got trapped for five minutes talking to old Mrs Mack across the road, who told her she shouldn't stay out in the rain because "it's not like London rain, y'know." (It was exactly like London rain).

Rose pushed her key into the lock in the wooden gate that ran alongside the house, thankful for the bit of light provided by the coach lamp on the porch. Her cousin's place was perched at the top of a hilly block, that sloped sharply toward the back. Rose's basement flat opened out onto a tiny terrace at the rear of the house, and she had to walk downhill beside the house to get around to the back. The tiles on the terrace were going to be slick and dangerous tonight.

She locked the gate behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. Only one more possible social engagement now. If Rose had left the latch unlocked on the door that led up into her cousin Pippa's kitchen, there was a good chance Pippa would be standing in Rose's own tiny kitchen with a plate of food. Food was definitely welcome. Company, less so.

"Oh, I made so much," Pippa would say innocently. "So, I've brought some for ye tae have for supper. No point it going tae waste." And then she'd put the kettle on and proceed to tell Rose all about her day. And Rose automatically said all the right things.

Inadvertent therapist, again.

Fortunately, there was no sign of Pippa today. As Rose closed the French doors behind her, and switched on the living area light, she glanced over to the internal door. She'd latched it! Rose exhaled and felt the tension leaving her body. Well thank bloody Christ for that.

Her usual coming home routine would commence with trying to remove her wet coat while simultaneously filling the kettle. She thought it would finish boiling by the time she had removed the last of her damp items.

After removing her boots, she glanced up toward the kitchen window, thinking she saw movement outside. It was almost impossible to tell with the light on inside, and the winter causing the sun to set early outside. The window was located at the top of the path, so you'd always see your visitor's legs in the daylight before they descended the path, rounded the corner and knocked on the door.

Dammit!

But Pippa wouldn't go out in the rain and in the dark. She'd knock on the internal door, unless she'd sent her husband Luke out on an errand. But Rose was sure she hadn't heard the wooden gate swing shut.

She turned toward the French doors at the same time that a dark figure rapped on the glass.

Rose's heart skipped a beat when she saw it was the motorcyclist. He still wore his helmet, but funnily enough, he gave her a friendly little wave when he saw her standing over by the kitchen sink. Rose stared at him blankly. He raised the visor on his helmet, as if that would help. She couldn't make out any features through the glass and in the blackness of the night. The weak outdoor lighting was ineffective in the rain. She remained staring at him, her brow furrowed in confusion.

The biker pointed his two gloved index fingers at his own face. Rose stifled a laugh and walked toward the doors. Bloody Ade. Did he buy himself a bike?

Rose pulled the door open, the beginnings of a smile on her face as the biker reached up and pulled his helmet over his head.

"Didn't you recognise me?" said Sherlock Holmes, ruffling out his curls with a gloved hand. "Bit dark out here, I s'pose. Not safe."

Rose froze, her mouth agape. How did he…? What was he…? She'd only tweeted him this morning. Her insides began to churn monstrously.

"Did you…" she stammered. "Did you climb over the gate?"

"Of course I did. You locked it. Bit inconvenient."

"Most people ring the front doorbell."

"Most people aren't me. And I'm not supposed to let myself be seen in your company. Remember? Aren't you going to let me in?"

Rose stood to one side, giving Sherlock room to enter her flat. He quickly glanced around before placing his motorbike helmet on the small dining table. Water droplets slid down the smooth surface and pooled on the tablecloth around the helmet. Rose took that moment while his back was to her to rake her eyes down his leather-clad body. Sherlock Holmes. In biker leather. And boots.

God help me.

"Looks a bit different to the council specs," he said.

"Sorry?"

"Were you putting the kettle on?"

Sherlock made his way over to the kitchen sink, while Rose closed the front door, then hastily drew the thick curtains across.

"Sherlock—"

"You didn't reply to my message," he said, while he busied himself with the tea things. "I wanted to make sure you had no further concerns."

"What message?" she asked, folding her arms in front of her.

Sherlock threw her a glance, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

"Oh, come on, Rose," he said. He turned his back on her again and heaped sugar into one of the mugs. Hopefully, his. He began pouring the water from the kettle as he spoke. "Sulnyd? Bit obvious. Sulford. New Year's Day. Your birthday. Did you get the rose, by the way?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Her throat felt constricted and her head just a little dizzy in his larger than life presence.

Sherlock brought their tea over to the coffee table in front of the two-seater sofa and single armchair. Rose found herself seated in her favourite armchair, tea in hand, as Sherlock arranged logs inside the fire place while he told her his observations regarding her neighbours. Nothing she didn't already know. Had he deduced all that from spending two minutes in the street?

Sherlock had removed his jacket, revealing a dark grey t-shirt sporting the artwork of a rock star's album cover, but Rose couldn't stop her eyes drifting to the leather jeans and what was clad inside.

Sherlock sank onto the sofa with a satisfied sigh as the room was bathed in a warm glow from the fire. Rose sipped her tea, watching curiously as Sherlock grasped the end of his boot.

"Do you mind?" he asked.

"No. Go ahead."

Sherlock pulled off his boots one by one and dropped them to the floor beside the coffee table. He then grabbed his tea, leant back into the sofa and propped his legs up onto the coffee table. He flexed his toes, still clad in socks.

In the space of five minutes, Sherlock Holmes had become part of the furniture once again.

He held his cup of tea in one hand and his phone in the other, both hands resting across his chest; he dropped his head to the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. His phone buzzed with what Rose assumed was a message. Or a tweet for Sherlock Holmes.

Didn't he even know how strange and unexpected this encounter was?

"Are you all right?" Rose asked.

"Yes," he drawled, without opening his eyes. "Just tired. I've had a long ride."

"From where?"

"Newcastle."

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head toward Rose. There was a hint of mischief gracing his features.

"I took the train to Newcastle, bought myself a motorbike, and rode the rest of the way here. Beautiful scenery. I've hired a storage facility to keep the bike in when I'm not here. And other stuff. Clothes, perhaps. Can't go around wearing this all day long."

He closed his eyes again and his phone buzzed once more, which he ignored.

Rose sat up straighter in her chair, then leant forward, placing her mug on the table. Sherlock was behaving as if they both existed in two different realities. And from a psychologist's perspective, that wasn't necesssarily a good thing. She had to take the gentle approach.

"Sherlock," she said tentatively.

"Mmm?"

"Do you remember the last time we spoke?"

"Twitter. This morning."

"No…" A noisy exhale escaped her before Rose thought to stifle it. If he thought she hadn't ended their relationship on Christmas Eve, this wasn't going to be easy. "Not on Twitter," she said calmly. "In person."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and then he repositioned himself on the sofa, dropping his feet to the floor. He placed his tea on the table.

He drew in his own, preparatory breath—one that usually signalled to Rose that Sherlock was about to give her an earful.

"Look, Rose. I know you think I'm suffering from the delusion we're still a couple, but I'm not. I know you broke up with me. I know you said your goodbyes when you were leaving London. But it was a dishonest goodbye. You know that as well as I do. Your tweet…" He waved his phone at her. "Hardly anonymous. You knew you wouldn't be. Not to me anyway. You changed the location on your profile at the last minute, but I saw it the instant you followed me."

"You—"

"I check the profile of every new follower. I find the ones who remain silent are the most intriguing. But Sulnyd? An obvious giveaway. You follow dull health professionals, and then you followed me. Sherlock Holmes. The most exciting Twitter account since the Camden Garrotter. And on the morning the papers finally reported the outcome of the investigation into Magnussen's death, you felt compelled to reach out to me. Obviously you were concerned about the fate of his secret files. But subconsciously, Rose—and put this in your journal of psychological anecdotes—it wasn't a cry for help, but a love letter to me."

Rose's jaw fell open. But Sherlock continued on, unabated.

"There's a private rehabilitation centre close to the border. Castle Something." He waved a hand, immediately dismissing the importance of the name. "I'm booked in this weekend. I'm an addict. Everybody knows that; it was in the papers. Lovely facilities on fifty acres." He shrugged. "Apparently. I've never set foot inside the place. But upon receiving a generous donation from me, they're happy to have me on their books. So, that's my cover story for travelling to Scotland on a semi-regular basis. Because this…" And he waved a hand between them. "…needs addressing."

Rose's breath shuddered on the way out and she felt her cheeks beginning to flush. She grasped the arms of her chair and pushed herself out of it.

"No," she said, with a tiny shake of her head. Sherlock looked up at her, his eyes widening minutely in interest. "You don't get to deduce your way into my life again." Rose side-stepped the sofa and escaped the living area. Not that there was much of a separation between the kitchen, dining and living areas. "I've got plans for my life," she told Sherlock as he twisted around to follow her movements. "And you're definitely not a part of it."

Rose folded her arms in front of her, resisting the urge to run a hand over her lower abdomen. She secretly hoped Sherlock would deduce her pregnancy. Why hadn't he noticed? He was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock left the sofa and made his way over to Rose. She held her breath and her muscles tensed. He seemed taller than she remembered as he loomed closer.

"I know you have plans. You've made a life for yourself here, with your family, who are only too keen to welcome you back into the fold. They've put a roof over your head, and…" His eyes quickly took in Rose's body. "…feed you. A lot, actually." What the fuck? "But, Rose…" He thinks I got fat! Sherlock narrowed the gap between them—close enough for Rose to smell his aftershave. "This can work, now. I'll hardly be here for anybody to notice. And I won't be here often enough to annoy you." A smile played on his lips and he reached for her and lightly held her arms. The smile faded just as quickly. "You broke my heart." Rose's own heart twinged in sympathy. "And I tried to ignore what that felt like; I buried myself in my work—it's the best antidote to sorrow—but this," he said, holding her a little more firmly, "should never be ignored." Rose's eyes began to fill with tears. "I know you love me," he continued, his voice fraying around the edges. "Just give me… a day…"

"Sherlock," Rose choked out.

"Twenty-four hours."

"What?" she asked faintly.

"Give me twenty-four hours in your company. And after that, even if you don't change your mind, at least it'll be an honest goodbye." Sherlock's own grey eyes were glistening. Rose found herself lost in them and the first of her tears fell freely. "Please, Rose," he whispered.

Rose unfolded her arms and brought her hands to Sherlock's chest as she dropped her gaze. A lump had formed in her throat and she couldn't repond for a moment. Sherlock fully banded his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her bowed head.

An honest goodbye. That's what he'd asked for. And still Rose couldn't give it to him. Could she, though, let him stay for a night and a day, and then tell him she hadn't changed her mind? She couldn't give him an honest goodbye, because she wouldn't tell him about her pregnancy. She couldn't hold that over him, couldn't add that encumbrance to his life. The responsibility of a child wasn't a part of his plans, in flitting in and out of her life.

But this would be a nicer way to end their relationship, in contrast to that horrible time in the drug den on Christmas Eve.

Rose lifted her gaze, and said, "I did love you."

"I know."

"And I still do."

"I know."

She searched Sherlock's eyes, hoping that after a day in his company, she'd have the strength to say goodbye.

Sherlock gave her a faint, encouraging smile.

"Twenty-four hours," she said.

"The best twenty-four hours of your life."

His smile broadened and one hand found the small of her back. He pressed her in close. Rose still felt light-headed. Was she going to do this then—spend a night in his embrace?

"And you'll respect my wishes after that?" she asked.

Sherlock silently nodded, his smile still in place.

Most of the air had left Rose's lungs, but she still managed to say, "Okay."

.


Author's Note:

Thank you, everyone, for your support and enthusiasm last chapter. I'm grateful you're all still reading!

As you may have noticed, Frogger the Hacker, who I introduced in the last series (Ch. 46 And I Further Deduce), has morphed into T6T's Craig the Hacker. I hope you don't mind. He seemed to fit perfectly!

And thank you to thedragonaunt for your invaluable info once again. You're almost as wikipediac* as Mycroft.

*yes, that's an adjective.

In case you're wondering, these chapters are slotted in just after the Christening scene in T6T, but before Sherlock is talking to Rosie and she throws her rattle at him. I'm assuming that one takes place a couple of months later, when she's a bit older and can sit up a bit.

Twenty-four hours for Sherlock! Will he manage to convince Rose? Will Rose tell him she's pregnant? Sadly, these are not quiz questions D: